Free A Carol Christmas by Sheila Roberts Page B

she made a so-there face.
    I glared at her and pulled a mixing bowl out of the cupboard. “Never mind. I’ll make more.”
    She swallowed the last of her cookie. “I helped pay for that ticket, you know.”
    “I’ll pay you back your share. With interest.”
    Keira frowned and turned to go.
    “Come on, Keir. Try to understand,” I pleaded.
    “Oh, I already understand,” she said. “I understand more than you think.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.
    She shook her head, the picture of disgust, and left me with the empty Tupperware container.
    Of course she couldn’t answer me. She had no idea what she was talking about. She was just trying to sound dramatic and mysterious. It was all those plays she’d done in high school. If she wasn’t so invaluable at the coffee shop, she could have become the next Julia Roberts.
    I looked to where Mom sat in front of the TV. What was the big deal, anyway? I wasn’t leaving until after Christmas. And I’d told Mom I couldn’t stay more than a week. It wasn’t my fault she hadn’t listened. Nobody in my family listened. Ears were wasted on them.
    Of course, I should have let my sister’s pettiness go. But I didn’t. Instead, I fumed as I flattened and cut dough, generating enough heat to bake cookies without the oven.
    Dr. Phil finally finished giving Mom her daily dose of relationship advice, and she joined me in the kitchen just as I was taking a batch of Christmas trees from the oven. “More cookies?”
    “Keira ate the last of the rolled ones.” I sounded whiny. Well, a little sugar would fix that. I stuck another sugar tree forest in the oven.
    Mom didn’t ask if I wanted help. She just got out powdered sugar, butter, and milk and started making frosting. I watched as she dribbled in a couple drops of rose extract. Mom’s secret ingredient for great frosting. I remembered all the times as a kid when we had helped her frost cookies, piling on mountains of sprinkles, sampling so many trees and Santas that we buzzed for hours after.
    She smiled at me over her shoulder. “Do you do much baking in New York?”
    “No time.”
    “You like to bake,” Mom reminded me.
    “No, I like to eat what I bake.”
    Mom grinned. “You’ve always been big into treats.” She reached out and patted my arm. “Speaking of, it’s a real treat to have you home.”
    I almost felt a tiny Keira dancing up and down on my shoulder, screeching, “See? See? You need to stay.”
    I gave her a mental swat and sent her flying. I didn’t need to stay. I was already staying through Christmas and that was enough.
    “It was really sweet of you to buy the ticket,” I said.
    “Your sister and brother chipped in. And Aunt Chloe. We all wanted to see you.”
    “Remember, Mom, I told you I couldn’t stay all that long.”
    Mom turned her attention back to the frosting bowl. “I know. But we figured it was the holidays, and you wouldn’t be all that busy. Anyway, who knows when you’ll make it home again.”
    Probably not for another decade
. I was just working up my courage to explain about the important upcoming meeting at Image Makers when Aunt Chloe made her grand entrance.
    “I’m here,” she announced, lumbering into the kitchen. She held a bulging bag. “Brought dinner from the deli,” she said, unloading imitation KFC. “Ooh, cookies,” she said and helped herself to one.
    I sighed inwardly. Now that Aunt Chloe was here any chance of getting my fill of frosted trees was officially gone. Like my chance of breaking the news of my early departure to Mom.
    I guess I could have told both her and Aunt Chloe right then and there in the kitchen that I would not be here come New Year’s, but they were both smiling, looking so pleased; with life, with me, with the cookies. It seemed a shame to spoil such a happy, not to mention normal, moment. I opened the deli bag and took out a chicken leg to munch, then tried not to feel like a cannibal as I bit into one of my